


Fly With Me

by youaresunlight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Figure Skater Dean, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Netflix and Chill, Other: See Story Notes, Snowboarder Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaresunlight/pseuds/youaresunlight
Summary: Dean only goes to watch the Men’s Half-Pipe Finals because Alfie asks him to – because the kid’s the baby of the Figure Skating Team and a huge snowboarding fan and Dean can’t say ‘no.’It’s not until he meets the charming gold medalist that Dean thinks, maybe, he made the right choice.





	Fly With Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Castiel has an accent in this fic, which will make sense as his backstory is revealed. I based his speech style and syntax on one particular real-life individual - mainly for consistency - though obviously there are many variations of the accent IRL. I did read up on the Half-Pipe, Olympics Villages, etc. while writing, but please suspend all disbelief for most descriptions of event schedules, practice schedules, and the like. The year and location have been intentionally left nebulous to bolster the AU. So, without further ado, I hope you all enjoy! :)

Dean tugs his hood firmly over his head and braces himself against the wind. Performing in a temperature-controlled rink is one thing; standing on a snow-laden hilltop is another. Out in the open, exposed like this, he feels every strike of the ruthless weather. He covers the lower half of his face with thickly gloved hands, blowing into the space between them and his skin.

Beside him, Alfie is grinning, and though a woven scarf hides most of his face, Dean can guess the expression by his twinkling eyes. He’s only seventeen, at his first Olympics, wide-eyed at his dream unfolding before him. This is Dean’s third, and perhaps his last, but he remembers the thrill, the exuberant joy, of competing at the Games for the very first time. Being the oldest and youngest of the team, he and Alfie formed an instant, sort of sibling-like bond. And when Alfie confessed, shyly and earnestly, how much he’d love to come watch this event, Dean had cursed his own weakness for huge, puppy eyes and dragged himself away from the warmth of the Village.

 _Christ_ , _it’s cold_ , his brain supplies as he tries to keep his teeth from chattering. He starts walking in place, which helps a little, and turns his head. “Excited, huh?”

Alfie laughs, unfettered and bright, and when he pulls his scarf down, he’s practically beaming. “Guess I’m a big fan, yeah,” he says with pink cheeks, not bothering to downplay how true it is.

“No kidding,” Dean teases him gently, because anyone who’s spent five minutes talking to Alfie has heard about his love for snowboarding. And even those, like Dean, who had no idea which finalists are favorites to medal, are now oddly invested in the Men’s Half-Pipe thanks to Alfie’s infectious enthusiasm. “So, what’s the order for the runs?” Dean asks, sucking in a breath at the next gust of wind.

“He’s going third,” Alfie says without prompting, which makes Dean laugh in fond amusement.

The runs begin promptly at 10:30 as scheduled, and they watch two Swiss and Australian riders score eighty-three and ninety-one, respectively. It makes Dean shiver to see them compete, how unreal they look spinning through the air. He’s trained most of his life to conquer gravity but it can’t compare to what these riders do.

He lets that thought occupy his mind until Alfie’s grabbing him, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Look, it’s him!” he whispers excitedly, shaking Dean again like he can’t help it.

Dean huffs out a laugh but indulges him, following his gaze to the start of the pipe. Standing at the entrance to the athletes’ tent is the reason they’ve been waiting out here in the cold. Not that they can see much of him, of course, with the uniform that looks like an astronaut suit and sleek, black helmet that gleams in the light. All Dean can make out is the red maple leaf embroidered on the sleeve near the top of his arm.

“Castiel Novak, representing Canada,” the speakers announce. “First Final Run.”

Cheering erupts down on the deck and cameras start flashing all along the pipe. Anticipation is high, the moment tense, and Dean finds himself inadvertently holding his breath.

Then Novak is off, and Dean’s a little speechless, tracking the movements as best he can. It’s all but thirty seconds, yet time seems to slow, and while the previous two riders had been insanely impressive, Novak makes it look easy, like he’s got wings.

When it’s over, the crowd goes wild, and through the unexpected haze that’s filled his brain, he hears Alfie murmur, “ _Three_ 1440s.” He catches Novak pump a fist in the air, can feel his triumph like a surge in his veins, because he’s been there, with millions watching – his _country_ watching – and there’s nothing quite like it.

Novak’s score is a whopping ninety-eight, and unofficially, the event becomes one to determine silver and bronze. Dean and Alfie don’t go anywhere, too respectful of their colleagues to leave before the end. They watch Novak’s run another two times, each looking more daring and crazy than the last. It’s almost like a vicarious adrenaline rush and Dean doesn’t even register the cold anymore.

“That was so _cool_ ,” Alfie says afterward, his blue eyes dancing and awe in his voice. “Thank you so much for coming with me, Dean. I can’t believe I got to see that in person.”

Dean smiles and reaches out, placing his hand on Alfie’s shoulder. “No problem, man. I’m glad you had fun.” He’s secretly relieved to have been persuaded.

They make their way down to the base of the pipe while Alfie talks his ear off about Triple Corks. Dean doesn’t mind – the fanboying is pretty cute, actually – though the distraction means they miss the sound of a bundled-up staff member calling their names.

When she does catch up to them, she kindly asks Alfie if he and Dean would like to come meet the new medalists. Media have apparently gotten wind of Alfie’s admiration and are looking for a wholesome meet-and-greet. Transcending rivalries and all that.

Poor Alfie looks seconds away from fainting, so Dean steps in to say, “Yes, we’d love to.” He lets the staff member lead them the rest of the way and into another tent set aside for press.

They meet the silver and bronze medalists, and congratulate them between interviews. It’s a bit chaotic, so the chats are brief, but the respect from Dean and Alfie and the joy on their faces are easy enough to communicate.

It takes a few more minutes to be introduced to Novak, and Dean instantly realizes like an anvil on his head that he had absolutely no clue what Novak looks like. Well, he knew the guy would be fit, in the way that athletes are expected to be, but he didn’t know how striking his eyes would be, how high his cheekbones, how handsome his smile.

It’s kind of embarrassing, he thinks, because Alfie’s calmed down enough in the last ten minutes to congratulate Novak like a normal person. Meanwhile, Dean hears his heartbeat like a roaring in his ears and his mouth feels dry and he can’t say _anything_. “Uh, um…” he bites his lip and he’s staring _too much_ \- “You were really great.”

He can feel Alfie turn to stare at him, but his eyes refuse to look away from Novak. He sees every last second of Novak’s mouth curving up even further, into something crushing. “Thank you for coming to watch,” Novak says – his voice so _deep_. His accent is thick, all rough around the edges, and Dean’s traitorous heart wants to flutter at that too.

“You’re welcome. You were amazing out there.” _You already said that_ , _moron_.

Dean should maybe stop talking.

Novak keeps on smiling, though, extending his hand. “Dean Winchester, yes? Figure skater?”

Dean is floored, blood rushing to his cheeks, as he takes the offered hand. “You know who I am?”

“Of course,” Novak says easily, his expression warm. “I’m very big fan.”

“Oh,” Dean blinks, feeling blindsided, fully aware that he’s blushing profusely now but hoping no one will notice, especially Novak. “Thank you,” he drops his eyes, their hands still entwined in a too-long handshake.

“Maybe I come watch you next week,” Novak says like a question, “when you compete.” He’s peering intently at Dean when Dean looks up, and the implication that he checked the schedule, for _Dean’s_ event, does nothing to quell the butterflies low in Dean’s belly.

“That, um, that would be nice,” Dean manages to say without outwardly wincing. Why Novak would be interested in seeing him again is increasingly a mystery, the way this is going.

“You should give him your number, Dean,” Alfie says then, and when Dean gets whiplash from turning to gape at him, he’s grinning like a child. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Yes, good idea,” Novak adds cheerfully, as he fishes out his phone from his sweatshirt pocket. Changed out of his uniform, he looks ruffled and soft, his dark, brown hair sticking up in errant tufts, which Dean imagines is due to hastily pulling on his Team Canada sweatshirt. “You give me your number, send text,” he says, handing over his phone. “Then you can save.”

Dean takes it, heart still hammering, and he’s got a resting rate of forty, for crying out loud; this shouldn’t be happening, yet here he is. He stares at the screen and taps in his info before sending a quick text to himself. He just types ‘Novak,’ and when he sees it, Novak laughs. “Call me Cas.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Exchanging numbers opens up the floodgates to a continuous stream of texting, or as consistent as it can be with Dean’s practice and workout schedules. Cas, with his iconic gold, is free to do as he pleases aside from media obligations, but he understands the pressures Dean is still under, and takes obvious care not to flaunt it in Dean’s face.

He’s a good texter, Dean learns very quickly, smiling down at his phone and trying not to think about how his last boyfriend was awful at it. It’s dangerous, and sort of ridiculous, considering he and Cas are merely acquaintances. Well, maybe- Maybe they’re friends, unless Cas shares cat gifs with just anyone.

Then when Cas shows up to his practice, Dean thinks… well, aside from how gorgeous he looks, that this may not be _entirely_ one-sided. Cas is sitting rink-side, all bright-eyed and smiling, filling out a red track suit with the Olympics logo and a white maple leaf emblazoned on the chest.

Dean is admittedly pleased, albeit confused, since he never told Cas what time he’d be here. He doesn’t have to wonder for very long before Alfie skates by and catches Dean’s wrist. “Cas! You made it!” he says, dragging Dean over to the edge of the rink where Cas is waiting with a crooked smile. Alfie turns to Dean, clearly proud of himself. “He asked this morning when our practice was.” His eyes are sparkling and so, so devious. “I told him he’s welcome. He _is_. Right, Dean?”

“Y-yeah,” Dean looks at Cas, whose expression can only be described as hopeful. “I mean it isn’t- It might be kinda boring… but, um, of course- Of course, you’re welcome.”

“Impossible to be boring,” Cas shrugs, as if daring Dean to try and dissuade him otherwise. His gaze is all intense, and _meaningful_ , and Dean wishes he weren’t so disgustingly sweaty right now.

Alfie chimes in, apparently on a mission to make Dean as red as humanly possible. “That’s right, Dean’s amazing,” he says. “I still can’t believe I’m skating with him.”

“Okay, _stop_ ,” Dean pleads helplessly, because even with his titles and medals and records there’s a part of him that squirms under effusive praise. He can never stop blushing when meeting his fans and refuses to watch his own commercials. He once did an interview where they made him read people’s hashtags for him and nearly choked.

Alfie just laughs and skates away, waving his arms with a blinding grin. “See ya, Cas! Take Dean out to lunch! He can only eat chicken breast and it makes him sad!” It’s so loud that most of their teammates slow down to look, and if Dean could sink into the ice, he’d do it gladly.

“Oh, Jesus _Christ_ ,” he mutters to himself, hiding his face in the palm of his hand. He can virtually feel Cas laughing next to him – a low, rumbling thing that shouldn’t be so sexy. He raises his head and pretends to look put upon. “So, you think this is funny, huh?”

He can see Cas bite the inside of his cheek. “Sad about chicken? Why you not tell me?”

And Dean can’t help it; he bursts out laughing, and Cas seems charmed as he crinkles his eyes. “It doesn’t taste like anything!” Dean cries. He knows he’s pouting. “I just miss a good burger.”

Cas nods, firm and empathetic, then says, “We go. After you win.” He sounds so serious, like it’s life or death. “Miss food from home. Happen to me too.”

 _Of course_. Dean remembers then, the stories he heard a few years ago, of how Cas and his family had left Russia behind, the only home they’d ever known. Risking everything. Dean can’t begin to imagine how that might feel. Sure, he’s trained away from home, but not like that. Suddenly, his complaints seem so juvenile, and he’s mostly embarrassed to have ever voiced them at all.

He can’t quite meet Castiel’s eyes, his cheeks pink and flushed, and he changes the subject. “You don’t know that I’ll win, Cas,” he mumbles softly. “I mean, it’s the Olympics. Nothing’s for sure.”

“Yes, is true,” Cas agrees solemnly, and when Dean glances up, he’s leaned in a little closer. God, he’s beautiful, all deep, blue eyes, warming Dean to his toes with his gentle smile. “But we know what you can do. The world know this. And you need good luck, but some faith too, yes?” The words are quiet but there’s strength behind them, like Cas somehow has enough faith in Dean for both of them.

Dean returns the smile, in spite of his nerves, flayed raw and open from compounding pressure. “You’re right,” he admits a bit shyly, feeling more calm and centered than he has in weeks. “Hey, how about if we, um, get those burgers anyway – medal or no medal – when this is all done?”

Cas takes a moment to parse out the question, then grins like he’s just finished a perfect run.

He patiently sticks around for the rest of Dean’s practice, and afterward, they eat in the dining hall, Dean’s plate piled high with veggies and protein. Cas, good sport that he is, grabs the same things Dean does out of solidarity. They do both make longing eyes at the dessert buffet until Cas shakes his head and steers Dean away.

Conversation is not always smooth, and every once in a while they pull out their phones to look up a word or decipher expressions. But for the most part, it’s fun and easy, and they spend much of lunch just joking and laughing. It doesn’t hurt that Dean’s completely enamored, but they’re _listening_ to each other, which matters most.

That night, Dean lies in bed replying to a text from Castiel. It’s a photo of a sunrise Cas took in Vail from the top of a slope. Dean tells him it’s beautiful.

‘Maybe I show you sometime,’ Cas wrote. ‘Hard to see sun when you’re always inside.’

Dean laughs, so pink and hopeless, so head over heels. ‘Definitely.’

He then closes the texts and opens a browser, pausing for a moment to consider his search terms before settling on Cas’ name and going from there. The latest articles, of course, are of Cas’ win, analyses and interviews and well-deserved praise. It’s not until he’s a couple of pages deep that Dean finds the ones he was looking for. The headlines are expectedly dramatic, though in Cas’ case they feel warranted. Dean clicks on one from _The New York Times_ and chews on his lip while the article loads.

It’s far more perilous, more heartbreaking, than any account Dean heard through the grapevine. He’d vaguely known about Cas leaving Russia with his family, to train and compete, though not much more than that.

The article describes, in almost painstaking detail, the years Cas spent protecting his secret. He was Russia’s key to break into snowboarding. A wunderkind. The media adored him. There are photos of him holding medals, on child-sized snowboards, with Russian dignitaries. He was so _young_ , far too young to bear the brunt of such heavy attention.

Dean learns that Cas, by age eighteen, had come out to his parents, who asked him to be careful. He never dated, never said anything, and smiled for the cameras though it ate him up inside. ‘I think I held on as long as I did because of my family,’ Cas said in the interview. ‘But it’s difficult, hiding yourself. My parents could see it was suffocating me.’

Dean’s throat closes up as he reads the rest, Cas speaking of his turmoil, and crushing loneliness. How competing was his primary means of escape, until that became poisoned too. ‘Leading up to Sochi in 2014, there was global concern for LGBT athletes, and even pressure on the I.O.C. to move the Games somewhere else. It was a wake-up call.’

 _Here, Novak takes a moment, falling quiet with a faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light that they seem a little wet when he speaks again. “It honestly broke my heart. Russia was my home. My childhood is there. My sister’s childhood. My parents’ entire_ lives _. It was so much to ask of them, and I’ll be plagued by that for a long time, I think.”_

Dean pictures Cas, his easy smile, the unmistakable warmth that exudes from him. He wouldn’t have guessed just from meeting Cas the pressures he’d been under, self-imposed and otherwise.

_“At the end of all this, when the time is right, I want to find love and share my life with someone.” Novak sounds a bit shy, his cheeks turned pink, but his voice doesn’t waver and his expression is bright. “I grew up watching my parents, who have such a strong relationship, and they’ve set a great example. A really high bar. But that’s what I want, just on my own terms. And I think that’s definitely worth fighting for.”_

Dean takes a deep breath when the article ends, as though he’d held it this entire time. He feels kind of winded like he’s just finished sprinting, his thoughts whirling about as he thumbs at the screen.

He’s spacing so much that it startles him when he gets a new text, phone vibrating once.

It’s from Cas, a simple ‘Goodnight!’ with a crescent moon emoji.

Dean replies with stars.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

“So, I hear you met someone,” Jo comments breezily, without preamble, the following morning. She takes the skates Dean hands to her and slides on the blade guards, watching him.

Dean groans and tries playing dumb. “It’s the Olympics, Jo. Gotta be more specific.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know who I mean. I also hear that _Alfie_ set you guys up?”

“He didn’t _set_ -” Dean bites on a sigh. “Jesus, am I here with professional athletes or church ladies? And don’t think all you equipment managers are off the hook!”

“Who, me?” Jo points at herself, her eyes blinking wide, all faux innocence.

“Yeah, you. You’re the worst,” Dean says, though his lips are already twitching into a smile.

Jo nudges his shoulder. “You love me,” she laughs, “and c’mon, you’re at the Olympics. It’s like the first month of college when everyone’s prowling.”

Dean thinks of anyone else here _prowling_ for Cas and he’s immediately, irrationally furious.

It must show pretty clearly on his face because Jo’s expression softens, no hints of teasing. “Hey, you really like him, huh?” she studies him carefully, concern in her eyes.

Dean doesn’t even have it in him to fight her on it, which explains more than anything he could say. “I mean, it’s probably pointless,” his shoulders slump. “We’re here for two more weeks then what, we go our separate ways?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jo sits beside him, the skates nestled preciously in her lap. “Or maybe you won’t and it’ll be this amazing thing, but there’s no way you can know unless you try.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Two days before his short program, Dean asks Cas over dinner if he watches any shows.

Cas names a few – a lot of HGTV, endearingly – then adds, “ _Friends_ , you know, for English,” and accepts Dean’s invitation to watch it together.

“Is this- How you say… ‘Netflix and chill’?” Cas quirks a playful smile when they reach Dean’s apartment. He’s shoved both his hands in his track pant pockets, making his forearms flex in all kinds of stupid ways.

If asked, Dean will flat-out deny that he flushes all over at Cas’ question. “Yeah, very funny,” he mutters lamely, then wrangles Cas through the door to save himself. “You’ve done that before, huh?” he teases lightly, watching Cas settle down on one side of his bed. Dean’s throat runs dry at how easily Cas fits, so relaxed and casual. Like he belongs in Dean’s space.

Cas blinks at the question, frowning a little. “Didn’t understand. Do what before?”

“Oh, just… the ‘Netflix and chill’ thing,” Dean gestures vaguely, his face heating up.

After a beat, Cas’ expression clears, and he huffs a low laugh like he’s amused. “Not meet pretty guy before, so I never do,” he says, and from anyone else, it would sound like a line, but Cas just looks… Soft. Genuine.

“I’m sure you’ve met plenty of hot people before,” Dean says for the lack of a better reply.

“Not same thing,” Cas murmurs softly, then pats the spot beside him. “Come. We watch _Friends_.”

They pick up where Cas has caught up to, which puts them in the middle of season six, though Dean focuses less on what’s happening on-screen than on the way Cas mouths along with the subtitles. He laughs the most at Chandler’s lines and occasionally looks at Dean to check if he’s watching. More than once, their eyes meet right away, and every time, their gaze lingers longer.

By the next episode, they’re pressed in close, Dean’s cheek pillowed gently on Cas’ shoulder. It feels easy and natural and good, the solid warmth of Cas’ body aligned with his. It’s been some time since he’s had someone to curl up together with, to share a space with, and it’s never been so comfortable this quickly with anyone – a thought that leaves him feeling a bit raw.

In the show, Ross and Monica are bickering, their voices climbing high till they’re purple in the face. Dean snorts because it reminds him of- “It’s like me and my brother,” he says with a laugh. “We’d get so worked up over stupid shit.”

“Your brother is older? Younger?” Cas asks.

“Younger. We’re four years apart.” Dean traces little patterns on the side of his thigh and, when his hand touches Cas’, neither pulls away. “And you, um, have a sister, right?”

He tries not to panic when Castiel stills, because of _course_ he had to mess it up. But when he lifts his head, Dean sees him smiling, sort of vaguely pleased. “You read about me?”

“Maybe, yeah,” Dean drops his eyes. “I’m sorry if I… If that was weird.”

“No, is fine,” Cas reassures him, though Dean can’t gather the nerve to look at him just yet. Then Cas shifts beside him – all slow, careful movements – until it dawns on Dean that Cas’ arm is around him. “This okay?” Cas asks quietly, ready to pull away if Dean asked him to.

That’s the last thing Dean wants, and he leans into the contact, relishing their closeness. “Yeah,” he says.

Cas waits a moment or two, before clearing his throat like he’s suddenly parched. He’s thinking so loudly Dean can practically hear him, yet when he finally speaks, he sounds uncertain. “My little sister, she… was figure skater.”

Dean glances up, blinking in surprise, and the smile he gets is small and nervous.

“She was good. Coaches come and ask to train her and she- I know she was always so happy to be on ice.” Cas falters here and Dean, without thinking, reaches for his hand, squeezing it tight. “She get injury, five years ago. Doctors said couldn’t skate anymore.”

Dean’s heart sinks. He couldn’t imagine- “God, Cas, I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t imagine.

“She’s doing good now. Better,” Cas says. “In school and have all her friends. She tells me she’s happy and I believe her but- I know she miss too. She won’t say, but I know.” Cas tips his head back, his gaze toward the ceiling, his sigh breathy-wet when he closes his eyes. “I never ask her to come watch me because I think…”

And he doesn’t need to finish, for Dean to understand.

“What’s her name?” Dean asks instead.

The question draws a smile. “Anna,” Cas says.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” Dean tells him softly. “Despite everything, I’m glad she’s doing well.” Cas turns to him then, his eyes a little damp, so ethereally blue and bottomless Dean feels his breath catch just peering at them. “And I know she’s proud of you, Cas. I mean, what you did- Not just here but fighting so hard for what you believe in. So many people think you’re _incredible_ and… and I’m sure your family does too. I just hope you know that.”

The words come out in a rush, and by the end of it, Dean feels breathless, a little embarrassed, his skin flushed pink. Cas is focused on him so intently, as if Dean is a question and an answer all at once. It makes Dean cough and avert his eyes, though that doesn’t lessen the intensity of Cas’ gaze.

“Anyway, um…” Dean says sheepishly. “Is that… how you knew who I was?”

“Yes,” Cas sounds so gentle, and even gentler when he touches Dean’s cheek, turning him until they’re face to face. “Yes, she is fan. But I am too.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes happily, and there’s a fire behind his ribcage. And perhaps it’s his hopeful heart playing tricks on him, but it looks like Cas might. Like he might want-

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, and kisses him.

It’d been easy to think about what this might feel like, but none of it compares to the real thing, to the slow, tender way Cas kisses him, and how Dean can feel himself _trembling_ , having wanted this so much. 

It lights him up, his entire body, and when they break for air, they still cling to each other. Dean can see the heat in Cas’ eyes, interlaced with unequivocal fondness. And it’s everything Dean’s wanted but- “Cas, what… What happens after this?”

Cas tilts his head. “After this?”

“After the Games, I mean. Is this… just a one-time thing?”

Cas’ face falls. “That what you want?”

“ _No_. No, definitely not.” Dean finds Cas’ hand curled above his own hip and twines their fingers. “This is serious for me. It’s just, I know it can be crazy here and people are trying to get into each other’s pants but-”

Cas blinks. “Get in pants?”

“Y-yeah. You know, like, um… just having sex.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, before sheer disbelief crosses his face. “Dean, you think I tell you about my sister – about _everything_ – if I just want your pants?”

“It’s not wanting my _pants_ , it’s getting into- Oh. So, you do want more?”

Cas sighs, looking put upon. “Thought you pretty _and_ smart. Was wrong?” he smiles. 

“Shut up, I’m brilliant,” Dean says, blushing hard, and leans in to kiss Cas again, because he can.

“Mm,” Cas pulls him close, murmuring softly, “And most beautiful.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Two days later, when Dean steps off the ice, his score placing him comfortably on the podium, Cas is there in the stands, and then in the locker room, sweeping Dean into his arms and kissing him soundly.

“I come visit you, after this,” he says, as he cradles Dean’s face. “Take you on real date.”

“Yeah?” Dean grins at him. “You’d fly to Portland for me?”

“Fly anywhere for you.”

Dean figures, if they’re in for the long haul, that he better get used to Cas being so romantic, but they’ve only been official for forty-eight hours. He can be forgiven for blushing so much. “Hope you’re ready for burgers and beer,” he says with a smile, already forming a list.

Cas pulls a face. “Beer? Is like _water_.” He smiles mischievously. “ _Vodka_ , then we talk.”

“I’m _not_ drinking vodka with you. I probably won’t survive,” Dean shakes his head. “You’ll drink me under the table, and then what?” he laughs.

“Then nothing,” Cas huffs. “I’m perfect gentleman.”

Dean’s heart trips. “Lucky me,” he says, before closing the small, remaining space between them.

Cas’ hands are so broad, so warm on his waist. “Of course,” he says. “Can’t tease you when you drunk.”

“Oh, of course,” Dean rolls his eyes, but Cas looks captivated by that too. “You’re still gonna get me a burger, right?”

Cas peers at him fondly. “Best burger for my champion.”

Dean swears that the tips of his ears go red, but Cas kisses him before he can protest. It’s a brief, sweet thing, and Cas looks elated. Hopeful.

Dean feels like he could soar.

“I can’t wait,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> [Rebloggable link here](http://puppycastiel.tumblr.com/post/172734206240/deancastropefest-title-fly-with-me) (please share if you enjoyed the fic!)
> 
> As always, do leave me kudos, comments, and love! :)


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